


The Man Who Fell to Earth

by blue_pointer



Series: Dancing in September [3]
Category: I'm Dying Up Here (TV), Iron Man (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Angst, Closeted, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Depression, Disco, Hollywood, M/M, Malibu, Stand-Up Comedy, winteriron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 17:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_pointer/pseuds/blue_pointer
Summary: When Tony's one night stand with "Bucky" turns into a full-blown affair, he feels like the luckiest man on earth. Too bad good things never last around him.The closer Clay gets to Tony, the better he feels, the better his career goes. He might even feel good, except for the screaming black void inside him that refuses to let go.Falling in love shouldn't be this painful.





	The Man Who Fell to Earth

It was a good sleep. Deep. Peaceful. Dreamless. Blissful. When Clay finally woke up--who knows how long it had been?--there was a body tucked against his, and it wasn’t Cassie’s. “Tony?”

The little guy had crawled in next to him at some point, and was little-spooning Clay’s big spoon, wearing nothing but boxers and a designer watch. Clay couldn’t help it, he leaned down and breathed Tony in. He smelled of machine oil and expensive cologne and just a little bit of man-funk. But in a good way. In like a nuzzling a guy’s taint while you teabag him way.

He couldn’t help it. One hand slid down to cup Tony’s groin while Clay started kissing from behind Tony’s ear to the curve of his shoulder. “Ohh, tiger! Take me!”

Then Tony was turning in his arms, and Clay was wrapping both of his around Tony, and pushing their bodies together, kissing him like Tony’s lips were the air and he was out of breath. After, he couldn’t remember all the things they’d done, just that Clay had come three times, and one was with his cock buried deep in that cute ass.

Oh, it was amazing. He’d never gotten to do that with a man before. It was good. Tony felt so good, and he’d come so hard, screaming Clay’s name--well, his pseudonym. It still counted.

After, Clay licked him clean, and then Tony showed him the hot tub, where he gave Clay a sponge bath, and they almost fucked again. “What day is it?” Clay made the mistake of asking.

“Saturday,” Tony answered, dragging the edge of his tongue down Clay’s chest.

Clay shuddered. “Oh, fuck.” Closed his eyes, let his head fall back. _Wait._ “Saturday?” His eyes snapped open. “What time is it?”

“About 8.” Tony went on teasing him, unperturbed.

“Shit!” Clay nearly pushed him out of the tub in his panic. “Sorry.” He tried to get up, and nearly slipped, sloshing water everywhere. “Sorry, I gotta go, I gotta--I’ll be late for work.”

“Don’t worry, sugar.” Tony dragged his callused index finger down Clay’s abs to his navel, kissing and teasing it.

“I’m serious.” Clay was doing his best not to flail. Damn this guy for making him hard without trying. “I’m really sorry--I gotta go.”

Tony sat back with a pout. God, with his eyelashes wet, he looked like he was wearing mascara. Cassie would be so jealous of those eyelashes.

“I’m really sorry,” Clay told him again, holding his hands in front of his dick before Tony got any more ideas.

“Fine.” Tony shrugged, clearly hurt. “Just run away. Break my heart. I always knew you would eventually.”

So many things Clay wanted to say to that. _Hell no, you asshole._ It was the type of thing a chick would say. So why did Clay want to reassure him? “Look--I’m gonna be late. Can your driver give me a lift back to Hollywood?”

“No.” Tony stood up, all cold shoulders, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist. Clay wasn’t sure there was an extra for him, so he just followed, dripping water across the shag carpet. He tried to remember where he’d left his clothes. “I’ll drive you,” Tony said.

That made Clay even more nervous. He couldn’t go anywhere near the club if Tony was driving. “Oh, you don’t have to--”

Tony reached up and grabbed Clay’s face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks so that his lips puckered. “Shush. I’m driving you. Now go get dressed before I’m tempted to take you to the rodeo again.”

Clay hurried. Not because he was afraid Tony really would, but because he really wanted Tony to do it again. Fuck, he’d felt so good. “I appreciate this.”

“Save it.” Tony was quiet the rest of the ride back. Clay didn’t say any more. He watched Tony shift gears hard in the Lancia Stratos, almost like he was angry. Clay still felt like he was high, like it was a dream. He almost asked to drive; the Stratos was a beautiful car.

He’d told Tony to drop him in front of the Chinese theater, and he did, pulling up to the curb without saying a word.

“I had--” How do you even describe the day they’d had? It was more than fun. Calling that fun would have been an insult. “--a really good time.” Clay started to climb out of the car. He had to say something else. If he left, this would be the end. But that would be a good thing, right? “Can I call you?”

Tony didn’t even turn to look at him. He wore sunglasses even though it was full dark, and Clay felt like he was being tuned out. “Call me any time.” Clay couldn’t read his tone, but it wasn’t sarcasm. He stepped out and shut the door behind him. It was hard not to stare as Tony drove away. Had that really just happened?

“Clay, where have you been? Goldie’s been going crazy! I called your place fifty times!” It took Clay a moment to focus on Cassie’s panicked face.

“It’s okay, Cass. You could have had my slot.”

“Yeah, right. Goldie would never put me on the main stage on a Saturday night.” She grabbed his elbow and dragged Clay back to the club. He was glad she was steering, because his head still wasn’t in it.

 

*

 

Clay called Tony again the following week. He figured he’d waited long enough to not seem desperate. The truth was, he’d tried his best not to think about Tony, and it had worked. Clay had let Cassie fuss over him, and they’d gotten high together and had deep philosophical discussions--Cassie was good for those. But the more time Clay spent with her, the more empty he felt. The more he knew he was letting her down. She was starting to be able to see the wall he’d built between them, and it hurt her. Clay wished he could tell her the truth; she was his best friend. But he just...couldn’t. Anyway, she wouldn’t understand. Cassie had never not been in love with him. It hurt to look at, that blind adoration in her eyes.

“Make it quick. I’m in the middle of something.” There was loud music in the background, and it sounded like he was on speaker phone.

“It’s cool. I can try later.”

There was a metallic clatter and suddenly the music stopped. The phone rustled, and he could hear Tony breathing hard into the receiver. “Buckaroo, is that you?”

“It...yeah.” Clay really didn’t know how else to answer that question.

“Tell me you’re calling because you want to fuck again.”

Clay took a moment, licking his lips first, nervous? Eager? “I wanna fuck again.”

“ _Oh, baby_!” There was a tremor in Tony’s voice and Clay couldn’t tell if it was acting or actual excitement. “I’ll pick you up in thirty--I’m assuming you want me to pick you up--do you? Do you want that, sugar pie? Do you want me to pick you up, pull you close, and roll my tongue all over your--”

Clay cut him off before he could get more descriptive. Was it hot in here? He tugged at his collar, clearing his throat. “No, I have a car. Is it the address on the card?”

“No, I’m at home.” That was an odd thing to say, Clay thought. “Feel like taking a trip out to Malibu?” His voice was so sultry and inviting. Like a warm, wet-- “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Clay’s breathing was ragged. “You’d better.”

 

*

 

That time they fucked hard, challenging one another, like it was a sport. Like one of them was going to win the contest, and one of them was going to lose. Or maybe it just felt like that because they ended up doing it on the canvas of Tony’s personal boxing ring, their skin covered in oil, like for a wrestling match. “We left a stain on your boxing ring,” Clay told him, sitting back, panting.

“I’ll stain your boxing ring,” Tony growled, grabbing Clay and throwing him down again for round three.

It was blissful. Clay didn’t have to think about anything when he was with Tony, just how fast he could get it up again, and if what he was doing was hurting Tony too much. Nothing really seemed to bother Tony, which was both exciting and disturbing. Scarier still, Clay didn’t even care about the drugs anymore. Sure, he wasn’t going to turn down premium shit like Tony had, but after a while, he didn’t even want it. His heart would start pounding, just thinking of seeing Tony again. Of being under him, inside him, next to him afterwards. If he was honest with himself--and Clay dreaded those moments of honesty--that was his favorite part.

Lying there next to Tony--it didn’t matter where--was like a vacation on a desert island. It was like the two of them were the only two people left in the whole world. With Tony lying next to him, Clay felt...he felt okay. Like he could just breathe for a minute. His whole life was this frantic struggle to climb Mount Everest. Tony was the rest stop Clay hadn’t known was there.

“You too high to fuck?” Clay asked him, leaning forward to nuzzle Tony’s stubbled jaw. He reached out to put the needle aside. Tony was forever falling asleep with needles in his bed.

“Never.” His speech was slurred, but Tony’s limbs were pliable when Clay rolled him over. He made love to Tony sweet and easy, slow kisses and deep thrusts, taking his time, like Tony’s half-conscious body was a beloved rag doll. Then Clay held him close until it was time to leave again. It was always time to leave.

 

*

 

It ended with a bang, startling and bright, like fireworks.

It was a good thing, really, the end. Clay had become too comfortable with Tony. Too comfortable driving to his townhome, or his beach house, or just meeting for a quick, desperate fuck in one of Tony’s beautiful foreign cars. Too comfortable.

That wasn’t Clay’s life, and it never would be. Moreover, he didn’t want it to be, and it couldn’t be anyway, so it was better that it ended the way it did: sudden, and painful, like ripping off a bandaid.

Clay was doing his usual set that night--Goldie had been giving him better and better time slots. She said he was on fire. She said nothing could stop him, that he’d be scouted any day now, to watch for those keen eyes in the audience, because they had been watching him. The dumb thing was, Clay didn’t even care anymore. He’d never really cared, and now he cared even less. The tight-fitting suit he wore, the persona, his angle, it didn’t chafe him like it used to. Now when he got home after a long night, when he was finally alone, Clay could take off that suit, and be someone else.

It should have scared him, this not-him that he’d become, that felt so comfortable, so natural. This not-him that could lie back with a cigarette and listen to Tony’s voice on the other end of the line for hours. Tony would talk about nothing and everything, and Clay would just listen. And the not-him that was and wasn’t all the things he’d run from his whole life, his whole schtick that made the act everyone seemed to love so much, it just existed. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t chafe. It didn’t itch. It didn’t make him want to run, to get drunk or high, to lose himself in someone else. It was content to lie back and listen to Tony banging around in his garage, smeared with oil, rambling semi-coherently about nothing and everything all at once.

Tony had a gaping hole in his heart. It was like a black hole, far-out in outer space, cloudy, with shifting colors like a lava lamp, like a nebula, beautiful to see if you were already out there in space, looking.

Clay was the black hole. He was all of space, the darkness, the nothing, and he could see the hole in Tony’s heart, and it was beautiful. It was this gently-glowing work of art, vibrant colors drifting in space, a miracle from God--and Clay wasn’t sure he believed in God anymore. The hole in Tony’s heart twirled on slowly through space, like a dancer, and just kept expanding and expanding. With it--because of it--Tony could do anything, the hole in his heart getting bigger, moving away from his center like the big bang, creating life further and further out in space.

Clay could almost touch it. He felt the warmth of its creation on his face. The music of Tony’s spheres sang, and he was the only one out in the void who could hear it.

Clay was so close to being swallowed up by the void, but the black hole of Tony’s heart made him want to stay. Clay liked looking at it, listening to it.

 

*

 

Tony couldn’t believe how fucking lucky he was. He’d never meant to stay in L.A. so long, but now he couldn’t leave. His beautiful Italian Stallion came to see him at least twice a week, and they talked on the phone more than that. He felt like the luckiest guy in the world. Something had to go wrong. Something always went wrong. Something did go wrong.

It was Rhodey who’d suggested they stop by Goldie’s that night. He wasn’t a big partier, Tony’s Rhodey. He had to stay clean for the Air Force, and that was fine, whatever. So Tony humored him. And because of that, it was with a mostly sober head that Tony claimed one of the VIP tables in the main lounge and sat back with Rhodey that night, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey, and taking turns heckling the comics on stage and his best friend.

He was only half-listening then, when the MC introduced the next comic--something about Boston and best-looking, and the room around them just erupted, it went nuts. Tony was leaning over, trying to say something to Rhodey about their days at MIT when Bucky walked out on stage, and he dropped his cigar onto the linen tablecloth.

Tony vaguely registered that Rhodey was putting it out, swatting at the burn he’d left on the fabric, chewing him out about not being careful. But his main focus was Bucky, up there in the spotlight, glowing brighter than any stage lighting.

It was like the room hadn’t known light until the sun had stepped out from the wings, and now the whole place was basking in his glory. Tony had never seen Bucky powerful and electric like this. He was telling painful stories about his family, about growing up, like they were no big deal, his boyish voice calm, almost apologetic. And the way he smiled when the audience laughed. It made Tony jealous. It made Tony love him even more, like he was seeing Bucky for the very first time.

Tony knew the second Bucky spotted him in the audience. His smile disappeared. For a split-second, he looked scared, a deer in headlights, like he might sprint off the stage. But then Bucky recovered, was once more the sweet, easy-going recovered Catholic, youngest of six, battle-scarred survivor of a small town where ‘different’ wasn’t tolerated.

Tony knew he should leave. But he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself, or scare Bucky--who wasn’t Bucky at all, of course, who’d never _been_ Bucky--into thinking Tony was going backstage to wait for him.

As soon as Bucky’s set was over, Tony made a nuisance of himself until Rhodey agreed to leave. Then he got wasted. He knew he’d never see Bucky again, and that wasn’t a loss Tony could deal with sober.


End file.
